


Enthralling the Devil

by PettyMermaidsGf



Category: Lucifer (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dancing, Detective!Bonnie is having none of Damon's shit and doesn't believe a word he says, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex!Enzo is confused and lowkey jealous of their relationship as they grow closer, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Heavy flirting, Lucifer!Damon enjoys trying to get a rise out of her anyway, Mutual Frustration, Possible Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PettyMermaidsGf/pseuds/PettyMermaidsGf
Summary: Detective Bonnie Bennett is given an impossible task: seduce the Devil for the weekend without falling under his spell in order to get her mark and solve this murder case. One Lucifer Morningstar (but please, call him Damon) doesn't plan on making that an easy feat. This is obviously a recipe for disaster and mutual hatred. Or is it?Expect a series of inter-connected Bamon drabbles loosely based on the show Lucifer, with fan-faves from both shows appearing on the regular as these two navigate their very-fake, very-flirty hook-up.
Relationships: Bonnie Bennett/Damon Salvatore, hints of Damon/Enzo and Bonnie/Damon/Enzo bc that's how I roll, past Bonnie Bennett/Enzo St. John
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Enthralling the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Or, the one where I started watching Lucifer and knew I had to make Bamon drabbles inspired by it! Enjoy this fever-dream paced nonsense of a first drabble, it's flirty and fun and very Season 1 Bamon-esque.
> 
> Is Damon actually a vampire, a fallen angel, the devil, or some strange combination of all three? Hell if I know, gays and theys, hell if I know. ;)

* * *

“No. Absolutely not.” Bonnie says, resolute, folding her arms across her chest. She doesn’t often say no to her superiors for a number of reasons, one of those being that she was raised right in a very black household, but _this_?

This is a good fucking day to say no. Because this is just ridiculous. Absolutely and totally ridiculous, and she will not do it.

“Bon, come on-” Donovan says, and he gives her that puppy-faced, blue-eyed pout that makes it look like they aren’t a day out of high school. “Do I have to beg?”

She huffs, arms still crossed, and says, “Maybe.”

He grins at her, the slow, crooked one she’s loved since the day they met in third grade, and promises, “Okay, okay. You do this for me, and I’ll bring in cinnamon rolls the rest of the week. No, wait-the rest of the month.”

Bonnie tilts her head to the side, expectant. “ _Aaaand_?”

Because it’s a good start, but it still isn’t a fair trade for what he’s asking.

Because he’s asking her to deal with a man who’s dangerous to the _nth_ degree. A man who’s at the top of every government watch-list, but who’s so elusive he can never be found. A man who’s very presence is so alluring, his smile so seductive and disarming, that people confess to their deepest, darkest desires upon first meeting him - before he disappears into the night like a half-forgotten dream, or the lingering chill of a nightmare. He’s a man who’s wanted for crimes innumerable, who’s whispered about ‘til the ends of the earth, who’s feared on grounds both hallow and ordinary.

This isn’t a small-time drug dealer they’re taking about, or a perp out walking the streets after some petty crime.

Because her boss wants her to hunt down Lucifer Morningstar. _The_ Lucifer Morningstar, otherwise known as the devil made real.

Or at least, that’s what people say about him anyway. Bonnie isn’t really a believer and would prefer to think it’s a stage name, an act, a David-Bowie level persona for the limelight. But still - she wants collateral if she’s meant to earn Morningstar’s trust and fake being his weekend hook-up in order to catch their mark.

“Aaaand.” Matt breathes out a sigh and runs his hand through his already tousled blonde hair. “I will pay for you and Mere’s annual spa membership at the most expensive place in town.”

She bites her lip to stop from grinning when she again prompts, “ _Aaaand?_ "

He laughs out loud and then gives a half-amused, half-frustrated, “Dammit, Bonnie, I don’t know! Whatever you want, okay, just- you have to get him to trust you by Friday night so we can nail this fucker from San Diego for the Johnson murder.”

Then, totally serious, “And you’re the only one I know who can do it.”

“Damn right I am.” Then she can’t help herself, she caves and smiles at her friend and newly-appointed boss, leans over his desk and presses a loud, obnoxious kiss to his cheek. “You’re the best, Matty.”

He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t quite look at her to try and hide his blush when he says, “No, you are, Bon.”

But she’s already walked out of his office and shut the door behind her. And as she heads over to her cubicle and grabs her car keys and phone, she can’t help but wonder what in the _fuck_ she’s just gotten herself into.

Or, rather, what in the hell, as it were.

* * *

So here’s the thing about Bonnie: she doesn’t believe in the devil. Not in the literal, Biblical sense of the word, anyway. She was raised by a Roman Catholic mother who feared eternal hellfire and a pagan grandmother who kept terrible secrets. Her mom used to pray over her when she came back from her Grams’ house every summer, like she was possessed and needed cleansing of evil or something.

And Grams’ place was full of sunlight, leather-bound books, and secrets, alright, secrets her Grams had called witchcraft. But if memory served right, she’d just done a lot of cooking with fresh herbs and pink salt with the window thrown open to let in the moonlight, buried jars full of shadowy things deep in the dirt out in the backyard, and whispered over huge, fragile-looking book pages for reasons Bonnie didn’t understand.

Sheila had promised she would one day - but she’d passed away before that day ever came. And then Bonnie had hightailed it out of Virginia and didn’t look back, not even once.

Now, she heaves a heavy sigh and squeezes the locket at her throat in silent prayer to Grams and whatever witchcraft lay dormant in her blood: help her charm the devil himself by sunset Friday night and let her live to see Saturday morning.

She figures she’s got time - it’s only late Wednesday evening.

She’s wearing a deep blue dress that hugs her curves and flatters her ass and a pair of chunky heels that accentuate her warm brown legs. Her hair falls in natural curls that frame her face like a dark halo, her winged eyeliner is sharp enough to cut a man like a blade, and her lipstick is a deep, wine-dark red. When she’d stepped out of the bathroom earlier that night, Meredith had taken one look at her and declared that she looked like Persephone charging into the Underworld to declare herself queen.

Steeling herself for the night ahead, Bonnie leaves the safe haven of her car, locks it behind her, and approaches the frosted-glass doors that’ll lead her down the stairs and into Bliss. It feels like a small eternity before she emerges from the shadowy stairwell and into the bar, low-lit in warm amber and decadent as sin with its polished metals, marble countertops, waterfall backdrop, and dark wood flooring. It’s like walking into a dream when you’d fully expected a nightmare.

A waitress with a head full of curls, beautifully dark skin and an even more beautiful smile hands Bonnie a glass of something bubbly and her breath gets caught in her throat at the sight of her before she takes a long sip. She wants to say thank you or even offer her name, maybe both, and she’s not supposed to _do_ that while undercover, but there’s something in the drinks here, the bubbles, they’re-

“Decadent as sin, hm?” A stranger’s low voice murmurs into the shadows of her hair, the accent caressing every vowel in a way that has her blood turning cold and her heart yearning for Enzo’s perfect British lilt-

But his sounds smoother, more Italian than British, maybe. And wait, how in the fuck did he know what she was thinking? Because she hadn’t said that out-loud in the first place.

Then it occurs to her: he probably _wants_ for her to focus on the impossibility of him being a mind-reader and ask all manner of questions while effortlessly falling under his spell. He probably _wants_ for her to imagine he’s someone else, imagine he’s anyone else, because it’d make his job all the easier. And she’d fall for it like all the others, because that’s what Damon _does_ : he molds himself into the sort of person someone so desperately wants him to be, earns their trust with the crafted, curated persona of their dreams, and then slowly, deliberately, pulls away the mask and smiles as they scream.

But she’s not going to give him the satisfaction, no matter if he’s the actual devil in the flesh or some rich playboy with a hard-on for playing pretend. So she whirls around to face him with her best glower and says, “Listen here, _Guyliner,_ I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but-”

And he cuts off her almost immediately, interrupting with an indignant scoff, “Guyliner? That’s awfully cute, witchy, but my name is _Lucifer_. And I don’t believe you were on tonight’s guest list, sorry to say.”

She rolls her eyes and mutters in a dry, sardonic tone, “And mine’s Bonnie, asshat. And believe it or not, but I don’t really care.”

He’s undeniably pretty and it irks the hell out of her, like everything from his square jaw, sun-tanned skin, stormy, glacial eyes and lean, muscular frame was made for seduction and he knows it.

She’s sure he does too - no man on Earth could look like that and not realize the power he has over people.

“And aren’t you just a lovely little thing indeed? Rather short though, and you’ve quite a mouth on you.” He smiles at her like he’s thinking of his own private joke and then says, “Pity that, but I’ve ways of shutting you up that’ll do quite nicely.”

Oh, this man is fucking _disgusting_.

“Although interestingly enough…” The devil’s mood turns on a dime as he gives her a slow once-over, drinking her in like a long, languid sip of fresh iced tea on a hot summer afternoon. “It just so happens I’m willing to make an exception for such a lovely woman, if you’d do me a teensy-tiny favor.”

A laugh bubbles out of her, loud and sudden, and she grabs another drink off another silver tray handled by another otherworldly beautiful waiter. Why are all the waiters here so damn beautiful?

“Oh, I bet it’s teensy-tiny alright.” And then, with more bite than before, she grits out, “And _yes_ , that was a euphemism.”

“Oh, darling.” The devil leans into her space and rests a hand beneath her chin, tilting her head up so their eyes meet. She can’t help but startle at the vivid blue of his eyes, the irises somewhere between ice in deep, dark water and the sea reflecting a gray sky. “I can assure you it isn’t in the slightest, but why skip over the best part, mm?”

And she knows she shouldn’t, but she looks Lucifer Morningstar in the eyes and asks, “Yeah, and what’s that?”

His fingers still resting beneath her chin, he holds her gaze and gives her a smile that’s slow to bloom into a wicked, wanting smirk. “The part where you wrap those exquisite thighs around my shoulders and let me have a long, languid taste of you, of course.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes at the way-too-forward line and says, “Really? Is that the best you can do, Guyliner?”

He looks almost affronted at the question, or maybe just the nickname, before he frowns a touch and admits, “I…suppose I can do better, yes. I may be rather off my game lately. Strange, isn’t it?”

He scratches at the stubble lining his sharp, square jaw in a way that says he finds it quite strange, anyway. She for one still doesn’t care.

He makes a point of looking particularly flustered and terribly European about his supposed lack of sex appeal before he comes back to himself, squints at her, and asks in an accusatory tone, “ _Wait_ \- did my father send you?”

The hair at the back of her neck stands on end for reasons she can’t name.

“He’s always doing this sort of thing. It’s just so like him I can’t stand it.” He says now, almost more to himself than her as he paces the floor in his expensive Italian leather shoes.

“What?”

Then he just looks annoyed with her, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose like it’s the last thing tethering him to sanity, and repeats, with more enunciation this time like she’s not understood his words, “Did. My father. Send you?”

If she weren’t here on a case right now, she’s pretty sure she would actually deck this man in the face for being so arrogant and self-absorbed, actual immortal ruler of hell itself or not. And she’s beginning to think not. “Newsflash, dickhead, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. And _firstly-”_

His gaze grows positively molten at the sharp note of irritation in her voice and she’s proud that it does absolutely nothing to her. “ _Ooh_ , you’re a fun one when you’re angry, aren’t you? And I do so like the angry ones…”

She’d hardened her heart to be perfectly cold and unfeeling after her and Enzo split, and no way in _hell_ was some beautiful Italian-expat with a cosplay fetish going to fuck that up after three years of bitter, lonely progress.

He raises a brow at her and wagers, “More fun when you’re angry and drunk, perhaps?” in a low, teasing voice before he runs his free hand down the expanse of her bare arm and smiles as he watches goosebumps bloom over her warm brown skin. It’s…rather sinful, that smile. And she’s trying hard to convince herself she doesn’t like it, probably a bit too hard, actually. “I could certainly help with that, witchy, if you were so inclined to sit with me for a spell…”

“Yeah, when hell freezes over, bud.” Bonnie retorts with cool disdain in her tone, wrinkling up her nose in disgust. But still, she doesn’t quite pull away from him. She can’t bring herself to - his touch is strangely comforting and up close like this, he smells like leather, autumn leaves, and the sharp scent of bourbon.

Maybe her hesitance is his so-called powers of persuasion working their magic on her. Or it’s the blood drinking and demonic rituals that give him this strange, hypnotic power over people - that _was_ what that Twitter thread had said, wasn’t it? She can’t remember now, she’d read it in a stupor at three in the morning running on spite and caffeine (as is her usual).

But it’s strangely exhilarating to stare this man in the face and wonder if he’s truly death personified, to feel his long, slender fingers ghost over her skin and leave it tingling and cool to the touch. She tilts her head back to look him at him further, _really_ look at him, and almost expects to see some nightmarish creature staring back at her. And yet his handsome, model-pretty face remains just as infuriatingly gorgeous as before, and then a sharp, sickening migraine has her stumbling into his chest as the pain leaves her dizzy.

She gets a sudden image of how he’d look in the shadows of the club after a grisly murder, with fresh blood staining his smirking mouth and stubbled jaw, and black, spidery veins crawling beneath his empty, ice-blue eyes and smooth, sun-tanned skin.

And then it’s gone just as fast as it came, the pain vanished along with it. She blinks, wholly confused. “What was that?”

It felt less like her imagination running wild and more like a flashbulb memory come to the surface, bright and raw and _real_. But that can’t be possible, because they’ve never met before.

Lucifer looks just as confused as she and asks, “My dear, what was what?” He wrinkles his forehead in thought and ventures, “Are you truly immune to men flirting with you, or is it just me? Should I try again? Or, wait, are you a lesbian?”

Bonnie just laughs and bodily pushes him away from her, earlier trance seeping away now that his touch isn’t lingering on her skin. “Yeah, definitely don’t try it again.”

She ignores the question about her sexuality and says instead, “It’s called dignity, you should try it sometime.”

The devil opens and closes his mouth, thinks on it, looks vaguely frustrated, and then his expression smooths over into an aggravatingly charming smile she kind of wants to punch. “As you wish, my lady.”

She glares at him and his irritatingly gorgeous and punch-able face and says, “Oh, cut the crap, would you? I’m here because-” Bonnie makes the mistake of looking into his eyes again and feels time slow to a standstill around them.

Not like in the metaphorical sense before someone kisses you for the first time in a romance novel, but the literal, physical sense of time slowing to a dizzying, startling halt. She can’t move a muscle or make a damned sound. Her mouth is still open but no words come to her, her gaze frozen and locked on Lucifer's form even as he moves freely about the room with blinding speed that should be impossible, inhuman.

She hears a sound like the great unfurling of wings, words murmured in an ancient tongue she can’t decipher, and then a fight breaks out from somewhere unseen behind her, but she can still _hear_ the sickening crunch of knuckles meeting bone-

Then time resumes its normal pace and he’s back in front of her again like he’d never left, but the expression in his eyes has changed. He looks at her with equal parts raw confusion, strangled hope and a strange sense of recognition she can’t place, doesn’t understand, because they’ve never met before today. She would’ve known. She would’ve remembered. They speak at the same time, a rising tide of voices that goes like this-

“What in the fuck was that, Lucifer?”

“Who…who in the world are you, Bonnie? He did send you, didn’t he?”

Then the devil gathers her in his arms and cradles her close, whispering against her hair, “I knew he would, I just wasn’t sure when.”

Bonnie’s quick to shove him away and slams her heel against the metal base of a cushy, crushed-velvet barstool in the process - the stinging rush of pain grounds her firmly to reality when she hisses and asks again, “ _What in the fuck was that, Lucifer?_ ”

His waves a dismissive hand towards her and says, “Ah, titles. Please, do call me Damon” but doesn’t answer her question.

_Again._

“What kind of name is that? And doesn’t it mean-”

“Demon?” He responds in what she guesses is Italian, low and perfect and pretty, and she wants to gouge her own fucking eyes out. Then he continues in annoyingly perfect English once more, “Yes, actually. And it’s on purpose, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t, thanks.” She bites out even though she actually sort of was.

Bonnie doesn’t understand what’s going on anymore. She isn’t even sure she wants to. Because she doesn’t believe - in God, in the devil, in witches or ghosts, demons, any of it. She’d come here to convince this man to help her get her mark through some standard fake-dating, real dancing and classical espionage as he swept them across the floor and whispered boring sweet-nothings into her ear. But now she’s confused, conflicted, and she isn’t sure if she should hightail it out of Bliss without a second thought or let the devil lure her deeper into his web.

**Author's Note:**

> I lazily edited this instead of studying for grad school so pls suggest what you wanna see in later chapters while I actually study this week. 
> 
> But forreal, whatcha want? Damon flirting up Bonnie? Her asking about his angelic past? A bit where she passes out at the nightclub and he worries over her before she wakes to the sound of him playing the piano? Him asking if she slept well and her dodging the question because she had sex dreams about them? ;)


End file.
